The World Outside
by Blame the Faceless
Summary: Enter Elizaveta, new to the block and just as lost as everyone else. The first day she moves in, she gets caught up in an extra-terrestrial vs. South London teen gang battle royal, all because of a woman who tackled her in the streets. On day two, she realizes it was one of the best things that had ever happened to her. PestOC. Rated M for language, graphic violence, and drug use.


The World Outside

Chapter One

_Remember, Remember the Fifth of November_

**~ \ ~ Start ~ / ~**

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**.**

"Are you sure, 'Zibel? I mean, 'zis place doesn't seem like a 'zafe house' to me…" Elizaveta Novichkov, previously Rasputin, murmured, accent heavy through the fabric of the knit scarf wrapped around her neck and lower face. Grey eyes stared at her companion, Isabel Weaver, a social worker and agent for the European Witness Protection Program, as the stern, but kind woman unlocked her new apartment, slamming open the jammed door with practiced ease.

Isabel gestured for her to enter, features tense and gaze never sticking in one place for too long. Liz sometimes forgot she was a trained officer—their witty and often ludicrous conversations seemed to humanize her from the standoffish sentinel she was meant to be to the sarcastic joker Isabel truly was. Even with an age difference of eleven years, Liz only recently turning fifteen, the duo got along swimmingly, sisters in all but blood (and thank God for that).

"This is you'r new kingdom, li'l princess," the auburn haired woman said, her grin malicious, her eyes impish. "No moats or knights in shining arm'ar, but wee li'l gangbangers and drug dealers." She placed a set of keys in Liz's lightly tanned hand, giving a cheeky waggle of her fingers in goodbye as she headed out the door. "You know my numb'ar, li'l princess!"

The door slammed shut, echoing in the silence of the bland flat.

"_Chto mne delat' seychas? (1)" _Liz whispered to herself, native language slipping out gracefully unlike her brogue English. Deft fingers unwound her scarf, setting it gently on the chipped wooden table near the small kitchen. She wearily took in the scarcely furnished residence, eyes roaming over the open area that included the sitting and dining room, past the partition that separated the kitchen from the rest of the space, peeking into the open door which held the single bedroom, and skimming over the other door that presumably concealed the bathroom. All of this done in a matter of seconds—_Uvazhayemyye Gospoda, kak pali sil'nyye(2)…_

The demented looking cuckoo clock on the wall spat out a crowing bird from within the depths of its birdhouse face, signaling the coming of evening at 6 o'clock. Elizaveta was suddenly reminded of the fact she had not eaten since early this morning, her stomach giving a ferocious growl of famishment. Her body had since become accustomed to the foreign custom of eating three square meals a day instead of a main meal at midday and a light meal in the afternoon like in her homeland. However, her palate still craved piroshkis, vzvar, succulent recipes that her mamochka slaved over the stove to make with a tender smile and warm embrace. _How I miss you, mama…_

With a sigh, the young Russian girl put her keys in the satchel over her shoulder after relocking the door, mind already set on finding the closest convenience store or supermarket to buy necessities. Pushing an errant strand of dark brown hair behind her ear, her thoughts drifted from one topic to another, sunset over the citadel in her hometown, the way the light caught the silver panes of the wind chime hanging from her window, laughter and air running cool fingers across her skin as she gallivanted through the meadow behind her house, the haunted eyes of the men and women testifying alongside her in the courtroom, the clang of the gavel as it struck a chord through the hearts of all those present, a promise broken, a promise kept. Screeching tires abruptly broke through her reverie and she waved in apology to the young driver of the silver Volvo that had slammed on the brakes because she hadn't been paying attention to where she was walking.

Hunkering down in her pastel yellow winter coat, Liz picked up the pace, focusing on the crunch of her kicks as they tread over dry fallen leaves. Foolish longing to call one of her old friends pooled in her gut, pulling at her insides desperately, but she ignored it to the best of her abilities. She knew the rules: no contact with your old life, no deviating from your current identity. Still, it wasn't wrong to _want to_, was it?

The sign for a gas station came into sight, not the grocery she was hoping for, but well enough, all things considering. She was too tired to go hunting tonight, so crisps and a microwavable meal would have to suffice, possibly a Seven-Up if she was feeling up to it. The college kid at the counter spoke in single syllables, grunting and huffing in affirmation between long drags of his smoke. He'd given her too much change; she hadn't said a word. It was his fault for being unfit for duty on the job, not hers.

Walking back towards the Ends, the brunette tilted her head back, watching the fireworks burst into thousands of wayward sparks across the sky. The air was fraught with joviality and the spirit of Guy Fawkes Night, some estranged UK holiday about the illustrious "Gun powder, Treason, and Plot" fiasco. She didn't really know much about it, only vague memories of the topic being covered in her history class. She hadn't been a very good student and now it didn't really matter all that much anyway; no school to attend, which was definitely a plus. Against her own psyche, the ambivalence of the night began to seep into her bones, uplifting her, rousing her from her small reunion with melancholy.

Humming the words to an Irish song she had heard on the drive over with Isabel, Elizaveta felt a small smile curve her rose-tinted lips. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. She had dreaded the move, having not ever left Russia before this, and more so that she'd have nobody, when all before she had had a family: the most important thing to a Russian. Yet, something was telling her not to despair. What was the worst that could happen?

Nothing worse than what already had, surely.

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Several streets over, a young woman in her mid-twenties walked with phone held cradled between ear and shoulder. Pretty and vibrantly dressed against the gloom and shadow of the secluded road, she huffed a breath of exasperation. Chocolate colored eyes rolling, she listened to her mother drone on and on about getting together soon, _we haven't seen you in so long!, _even if it had only been two weeks…

Two boys on bikes sped past, one small enough to be just a child of six or seven. Consciously picking up the pace as paranoia and fear crept up like stalking predators, Sam bit her lip as the conversation turned to another of her mother's favorite topics: her safety. Muttering half-hearted reassurances that only became more false with each passing moment, the woman was distracted by the sight of five figures blocking the sidewalk up ahead, hunched like formidable chimaera waiting to pounce.

Distractedly, she murmured a rushed goodbye to her protesting mother, tucking her phone into her purse, securing the top flap. Clutching her handbag to her chest as if it could somehow shield her from the inevitable, Sam rushed out into the street, a last ditch attempt at trying to avoid conflict.

The one in the middle motioned to two of the boys and they broke free of the group, lazily peddling undeniably close to her person, inches away from clipping her. With hoods drawn and masks shielding their countenances, they almost looked like demons with blocked out faces, specters looming perilously near.

A sigh left her mouth when they simply passed, relieved that it had all been her imagination. They weren't going to assault her; her mind was just on edge from all the things her mother had spouted out over the phone. Yes, they were just boys. They wouldn't—

"Fuck."

The other three had blockaded her from passing in front; a glance back proved that the two boys on bikes had taken behind. Nowhere to go, she was trapped, no escape, no escape. Her hands shook violently, it all happened so fast.

The phone, he wanted the phone. She tried to give it to him, but she was quivering too hard. They took the whole purse. She vaguely registered voicing a sharp protest, but everything by then was racing past her sights.

Instinct made her raise her hands in defense, another natural mechanism to block the incoming. The leader, hat with a red brim, demanded a ring. What ring? Ring, ring…Her grandmother's ring, yes! But, no, he couldn't have that. _It's not worth anything. _

"Don't fuck about!" The youth growled, reaching into his pocket for something. There was a click. She knew that sound, fuck, fuck, fuck! Oh, how she knew that sound! The flickering streetlamps caught the metal of the knife, gleaming a deadly silver, like nocturnal eyes in the dark.

Pulling at the ring, Sam gritted her teeth, franticly trying to loosen it. Too tight. She knew it wouldn't fit on her middle finger; why had she shoved it on without thought? Why, why, why?

"Wanna get murked innit?" A large hand grasped her own, impatient to claim the antique for himself. Not if she could help it! No!

Suddenly, Sam hit the ground with a loud thud, the impact jarring her backside. A sliver a pain shot up her spine, tingling and jarring through her vertebrae. _Fuck!_

"Boy, you're _too _brave…"

Closing in, they slinked around her, surrounded, surrounded. Again.

"'Dat ring is heavy, get 'dat!"

_I have one of those hats, a wooly hat with tassels._

"Quick 'fam, before the feds come innit…"

"Fuck the feds man…"

The ring, off, off, off.

"_Just take it!"_

Not leaving, not leaving. Why weren't they leaving? She had nothing else, nothing! Why?

_Help! Somebody help me!_

Home, Sam wanted to go home, maybe play a couple songs on the guitar she still kept around like some morbid form of hope or remembrance of her failed dream of being a musician, before life decided to decimate all of the child still left inside her. She wanted the comfort of her boyfriend's arms around her, but he wasn't here. He was away, so far away and out of her reach it hurt.

A brilliant burst of light lit up the sky above her, plummeting straight towards them. It must have been some remnant of a firework and then, running, she was running, stumbling, away. An explosion of sound and shattered glass, tinkling like individual peals of a clock tower against the asphalt.

The group's attention had turned to the demolished and crushed exterior of a silver car that had been in the unfortunate path of the _meteor? _It was her chance, escape, _escape! _Freedom, opposite of that man—_what was his name?_—his name was Guy Fawkes, yes, today was that holiday, but that didn't matter.

Run, run, run.

Turning around the nearest corner, Sam fled with the grace of a gazelle with two broken legs, constantly looking behind her. They wouldn't come after her, would they? They might, could, should. She had to tell the police. Yes, they could help her.

Once more rounding another bend, her breath left her lips in panting gasps and squeaks, holding back an onslaught of tears she knew would pour endlessly once they started. A little more, a little more and then home.

Run, run, run.

She didn't see the young girl until it was too late. They impacted with a harsh _crack._

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**~ \ ~ Chapter One End ~ / ~**

_(1) Chto mne delat' seychas? –_Russian for _What do I do now?_

_(2) Uvazhayemyye Gospoda, kak pali sil'nyye. –_Russian for_ Dear Lord, how the mighty have fallen._

**A/N: Reason I wrote this? I love Pest. Need I say more? Please review if you have the chance!**

**Sincerely, Blondie**


End file.
